


Dearly Departed

by WebbedUpKatanas



Category: Ultimate Spider-Man (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WebbedUpKatanas/pseuds/WebbedUpKatanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since it’s taking me approximately 15 years to finish my long spideynova fic I figured I’d post this little story. This is a bit of angst that was inspired by the Marianas Trench song of the same name. Despite the title there is no death! There is however  lots of angst and some nsfw. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dearly Departed

Peter can't use his kitchen table. Hasn't been able to for almost a year now. It has nothing to do with the table itself. It's a nice table, one they had barely used. The reason he can't use it has more to do with what's on it. Those little white and gold cards he just can't bring himself to throw out.

Sitting at the table is just one item of a long list of things he can't bear anymore, not since last November.

It's October now, the chill has started to creep into the air and the leaves are changing to brilliant shades of orange, yellow and red. It's the perfect time of year for a photographer, but Peter finds the colours too bright, too cheerful for the way they make his heart ache. They remind him of last October, the look on Sam's face, haloed by the most vivid red leaves he'd ever seen from Peter's vantage point on one knee.

Peter shakes his head, taking another swig of wine. Funny how he'd avoided alcohol so long. Maybe he'd had a good reason. All the wine is doing is making the hole in his chest ache around the edges, making the urge to pick up the phone so much stronger than he can bear.

Two more glasses is all it takes before he can't stand it anymore.

“Hello?” says a familiar voice. A voice he hasn't heard in far too long. A voice that almost brings Peter to his knees at the flood of memory and emotion it invokes.

“Hey,” he chokes out, startled at how rough his voice sounds.

There's a moment of silence, a moment where Peter wonders if he's about to be hung up on.

“Pete?” Sam says, his voice wavering on what used to be his favourite word. Peter closes his eyes, wills himself to be strong when all he wants is to scoop Sam into his arms at the sound of his name on his lips. “What's wrong?”

There's a lot of ways he could reply to that question. You aren't here. We fell apart and I can't fix it. I messed up and lost the best thing in my life, and now I can't do anything without seeing your face or hearing your voice or remembering you.

“Nothing,” he says instead. He already regrets making this call, but he has a long list of regrets and it's not like this is the worst. “Nothing just... it's October.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and Peter knows he feels it too. He can tell by the way his voice cracks. Why is it that there are so many cracks in their lives now? It feels like all these seams and fractures are about to shatter them, and now here he is poking at them with a phone call. But still... still it's nice in a bittersweet way, to hear the pain in Sam's voice. To know he's hurting just as much. Sometimes, alone in the apartment they used to share and haunted by Sam's ghost around every corner Peter wonders guiltily if Sam is even hurting at all. Something about the proof of his pain settles something in him. At least he isn't alone in this torture.

He's not sure what prompts him to ask his next question. Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the date. Maybe it's just Sam's voice, the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line.

“Come over?”

Sam's going to say no. After all, they both know what a bad idea that is.

They've texted a handful of times, emailed a few too. There had been one or two phone calls right after the split, and two meetings. One to give back the ring, and one when they'd thought they were ready, gathered with their friends. It had turned out they weren't. The night had ended in screaming, in tears and accusations and private baggage spilled out in public.

“Peter...” Sam sounds tired. Peter wonders if he'd interrupted him while he was packing. Part of him vindictively hopes so.

He stays silent, closing his eyes and waiting for the rejection.

“I can be there in five minutes,” is what he gets instead, like a punch to the face.

Peter grips the phone tighter. “See you in ten then,” he replies before he can stop himself. It feels wrong, replying with the same old joke they'd always had. It had started as a way for Peter to be a dick, always implying it would take Sam double the time he swore he could get there despite the fact that he was almost never late. Perks of having a helmet that can break the sound barrier. Saying it now though feels too intimate somehow. Like maybe he overstepped a boundary, bringing up the six years of history between them now.

“Bye asshole,” Sam says the normal response, his voice sounding just as raw as Peter feels. The lack of “I don't even know why I love you” hurts more than he thought it would. The silence feels wrong, but it takes Peter a second to collect himself enough to say “Bye” back.

The time between the phone call and Sam's arrival feels empty, but Peter is used to that by now. Empty spaces where Sam isn't, empty moments he wants to share, empty silence so loud it makes him turn on every appliance in his house just to hear the noise he misses so much.

He drinks another glass, so by the time Sam appears at his window he's drunk enough to allow himself to pretend that the rush of feeling is because Sam's been away in space, and now he's back. If he pretends hard enough it almost almost seems true, and he can forget that Sam's been just a few blocks over, in his own empty hell of an apartment. At least... a small vindictive and desperate part of Peter hopes it's a hell without him.

“Want some wine?” he asks as soon as Sam is inside.

Sam takes off the helmet, and the dazzling lights around him fade, but Peter still feels a little dazzled. He looks the same, only different. There's stubble that Sam never used to let grow, his hair seems different somehow... but his eyes are the same. Sadder, but hey, Peter understands that all too well.

Sam crinkles his nose at him, glancing at the almost finished bottle Peter offers him. “Since when do you drink wine?”

It's kind of hilarious the moment that Sam realizes what event might have possibly driven Peter to drinking. His expression is sheepish and tragic, and for some reason that makes Peter want to laugh until he can't laugh anymore.

“MJ got me hooked on it,” he says, coming to Sam's rescue. “I've been told it's good stuff, not that I have a huge frame of reference.”

Sam takes the bottle, swigging some wine and Peter is weirdly reminded of all the times Sam used to yell at him for drinking milk right out of the carton. He's tempted to bring it up, but now doesn't exactly seem like the right time.

Sam makes a contented little after drink sigh and Peter grins. “Yeah I know right? That wine is some pretty grape stuff!”

He expects a groan, or maybe even a laugh. Possibly both knowing Sam.

Instead he gets hands fisted in the front of his shirt and a hot mouth pressed against his own. He moans, a soft sound that he couldn't stop even if he tried, and Sam echos the sound, body hot and hard against his front.

They're clinging to each other, moving towards the bedroom without once breaking the kiss. And god isn't it strange how he hasn't seen Sam in almost a year and yet kissing him is the easiest and most familiar thing in the world? It's like no time has passed since whenever their last kiss had been (he can never remember no matter how hard he tries when the last one was) and this one.

Sam's hands cling to the front of his shirt, his nails digging in like he wants to claw his way into Peter's chest and fill up that void inside him with his warmth.

They tumble to the bed, shedding clothes as they press against each other, giggling into each other's mouths as Peter's pants get stuck, and Sam's shirt gets tangled around his head.

“God, I missed this,” Peter gasps, as Sam kisses down his chest, teeth grazing one pert nipple. He immediately wants to bite the words back, shove them back into his stupid mouth before Sam realizes what a horrible idea this is and leaves. But Sam just kisses his chest, sucks on him in a way that makes Peter ache for that mouth to move lower.

“Me too,” he pants against Peter's abs, kissing his way down down down. Peter lets him go, lets himself get lost in the softness of Sam's lips, the warmth of his mouth. Then he's tugging at his hair, tugging at his shoulders until he's close enough to kiss again, the friction between their bodies not even nearly as important as Sam's lips kissing him deep and slow. This is something Peter has been longing for since the day Sam packed his bags, but it's not enough. How can it ever, ever be enough?

“I missed this so much Pete. Missed you so much, fuck,” Sam murmurs between kisses, mouthing the words against his neck, his shoulder, his lips again. Peter does the same, whispering 'I love yous' he hasn't let himself even think for so so long lest the pain of them consume him.

Not that this doesn't hurt. Every movement, every kiss, every shameful whispered word is like a knife in the gut, because Peter knows how this ends. But for now, with Sam biting his neck, telling him he wants him, needs him, god he loves him, for now he can almost forget it. He can push the pain down, let it mingle with the pleasure as Sam sinks inside.

They ride out their pleasure together then collapse, Sam snuggled up in Peter's arms a perfect fit.

“Damn,” Sam breathes, and Peter can hear his smile in his voice.  
“Very eloquent. I totally agree,” he laughs against Sam's hair, just breathing in the smell of him. He focuses on the warmth of Sam in his arms, the softness of his skin, the slowing of his breathing. It helps keep the creeping uncertainties away, at least for a while.

“So... Connecticut huh?” he says after a moment.

He never was very good at shutting down his brain.

Sam stiffens, going rigid in his arms.

“It's a good opportunity,” he replies, a defensive edge to his voice.

Peter nods, torn between the impulse to rub the tension out of Sam's shoulders and to push him out of bed. “I'm happy for you,” he says quiet but genuine. And he is. He is but... “Were you planning on telling me?”

Sam leans back, eyebrows tilted down and the line of his lips thin. “You seem to have figured it out just fine without me.”

“That's not the point Sam,” he bites out, voice hard and bitter. “I thought maybe you'd you know, actually call? Email? Something, instead of letting me find out secondhand on social media. Do you know how much that-” he cuts himself off before he can say hurt. Sam doesn't need that kind of ammo.

“Yeah well you're the one who told me we needed to stop talking or whatever,” Sam practically shouts back. He always did get impossibly louder when he was upset.

“You know I didn't mean... it's not... Sam you're leaving! That's a big deal,” he tries, leaning out of Sam's space more. God Sam is infuriating. And it's so stupid, but that just makes Peter miss him even more.

Sam glares, and for a moment Peter is afraid he's about to get up and walk out. That maybe this will be the last time he ever sees him, angry and naked and so far away in the small space between them on his mattress.

Maybe his fear shows in his face, because Sam still looks pissy, but it softens around the edges and he scoots back in closer. “I don't know Pete. You told me to stay away and then I knew I should tell you but I just, I don't know...”

Peter opens his arms and Sam gratefully wiggles his way into them, pressing his face against his chest. “It's just hard. It used to be so much easier didn't it?”

“With us? Never,” Peter chuckles, knowing Sam can feel the wetness as he presses his cheek against his head.

Sam laughs wetly, thank god it's not just him, and nuzzles in closer.

They talk then, and it feels like traversing a minefield, where even the things that make them laugh hurt. Sam has a beautiful laugh, too loud and a little sharp. It's still one of Peter's favourite sounds in the world.  
On the cusp of sleep Sam's arms tighten around him, and he traces his lips over Peter's ear.

“I can't stay.”

“Why not?” Peter asks, struggling against sleep and hurt, pulling Sam closer.

Sam snorts, pressing his forehead hard against Peter's chest. “I was packing when you called. I have to finish.”

Peter stays silent, neither of them moving. A part of him selfishly wishes they could stay there forever, holding each other with no end in sight. Then Sam stirs slightly, and the dream is shattered.

“Stay,” Peter chokes out, a broken plea. “Please stay. Just for a little while.”

Sam settles back in, silent.

“Until you're asleep,” he says finally, holding Peter so tight he thinks he might bruise.

Of course sleep comes too quickly, despite how hard he fights it. He hasn't slept properly in longer than he can remember, always pushing himself to the edge of exhaustion before he collapses into bed so he won't have to think. Then he wakes up early for patrol before work. But with Sam he sinks like a stone deep into the ocean of sleep.

He barely even stirs when later that morning Sam presses a kiss to his head and disappears out the door.

….......

Peter walks like a ghost through his apartment, and if he didn't still have marks on his neck and chest he'd have thought last night was a dream.

He'd woken up to the smell of Sam on his pillow, and the phantom feeling of him in his arms. Otherwise the bed was empty and cold, and Peter felt the same.

Snapshots from the night before keep looping over and over in his head. Sam's face, nervous and unsure as he had climbed in the window. The amusement at Peter drinking wine. The way he looked eyes shut, expression blissed out. The way he had held him close, the kiss before he left.

The wall shakes when he punches it. His fist sinks through the drywall, but he doesn't care. He doesn't even shout, just a quick jab, the satisfying crumble of the wall as he pulls his hand out.

“God,” he croaks, pressing his forehead against the wall. “You did it again Pete. Nice job. Parker luck right? Or maybe you just fuck up everything you do.” He backs away from the wall, already regretting his little outburst. “It's not luck. It's just you.”

He makes himself breakfast on autopilot, an egg in toast, bacon, some potatoes with herbs. All things Sam had taught him to make, things Sam could have made better if he was here.

Is there anything anywhere that doesn't have an echo of Sam attached?

He shakes his head. Well... at least he'd gotten to see him. At least he'd been able to hold him one last time before he slipped away for good. Maybe it's stupid but Peter had always felt a little spark of hope buried way down deep, that maybe someday...

He pauses beside the kitchen table, wondering if today he can bring himself to even glance at the invitations like he usually does.

“You are invited to the wedding of Mr and Mr Parker-Alexander”

The words still hurt, but what really gives Peter pause is what is under them.

On the invitation in black pen a Connecticut address is scrawled in familiar messy writing. Under that is a new phone number. Peter picks it up, staring at it until it blurs. He stands there, stuck, for a long long time, before he takes the card and places it on the mantle.

Then he gathers up the others, closes his eyes, and throws them out.


End file.
